


i’m just too much a coward (to admit when i’m in need)

by WillowsAndWastelands



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 07:05:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19145986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowsAndWastelands/pseuds/WillowsAndWastelands
Summary: Steve is gone.Not gone as in dead. God, if that were true, Tony doesn’t know what the hell he’d do. No, Steve’s gone as in taken. As in Steve went away for a stupid, stupid, not-fucking-worth-it SHIELD mission and didn’t come back.Tony looks for a month. For thirty-one days, he doesn’t do anything but look.He should feel relieved when he finds him, right? And don’t get him wrong— he is.It’s just the Steve he was expecting isn’t a one-hundred pound asthmatic with an attitude and some serious emotional baggage tied to being five feet tall again.Well. Tony’s the mechanic. He’ll fix it. Because he fixes things that need fixing, of course.Not for, uh, any other reason.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey y’all!
> 
> i keep on my marvel bullshit bc i luv my boys and all of u! 
> 
> please leave kudos and comments if u enjoy bc im emotionally bankrupt and attention starved. 
> 
> come yell at me on tumblr: @WillowsAndWastelands
> 
> enjoy💕❤️♥️❤️

Tony never has been very good at knowing when to stop. 

Maybe it’s because Howard didn’t set the best example; spending damn near every minute in his office. Or maybe it’s because Tony doesn’t know who he is without his work. Or maybe it doesn’t matter at all why he can’t seem to just give it a goddamn rest (which is what he’s tried to tell the many, many unsatisfied therapists he’s had over the years.) 

He just can’t. Not even when the people that love him most ask him to. He just can’t. 

The team comes to sit with him in the workshop quite a lot these days--- Bruce usually arrives bearing an excuse about needing his laboratory equipment, Clint complaining that his hearing aids aren’t up to par (though there’s never anything actually wrong), Thor offering some hardly relevant Asgardian wisdom and Natasha--- beautiful, wonderful, lovely Natasha--- respects Tony’s bullshit-meter enough to not say anything he’ll just see straight through. 

They’re there because they’re worried about him. Because he can’t stop. 

Because Steve is gone. 

Not gone as in dead. God, if that were true, Tony doesn’t know what the hell he’d do. No, Steve’s gone as in taken. As in a month ago, Steve went in for a stupid, stupid, not-fucking-worth-it SHIELD mission and didn’t come back. As in Fury called a meeting and told them maybe Steve wasn’t ever going home; his whole strike team was found dead in an alley but Steve’s body wasn’t there, Tony, so he might be alright, Tony, he has to be alright so you have to keep looking, Tony. 

As in Tony can’t stop looking. It’s been a month. And he still hasn’t found him. 

“When’s the last time you slept, Shellhead?” Natasha asks, making him jump a little as he comes out of his thoughts. Jesus, maybe they’d find him a little faster if Tony could just fucking focus for once in his goddamn life. “You don’t look so good.”

“I get my hours,” he says, waving her off with a shaky, admittedly overly-caffeinated hand. “We can’t be having siestas all the time, now can we?”

“No,” she agrees, leveling him with an exasperated glare. She looks tired; slumped up against the walls, shoulders slouched. She’s been looking for too long, too. “But we also can’t be running ourselves into the ground, now can we?” 

“I’m very much above ground, Nat,” he says; flashes a smile that feels as brittle as it is fake. Her face softens a little in response, but that just puts Tony on edge. Softness from Natasha means pity— and pity means defeat, means she thinks Tony should stop when she knows very well he can’t stop and—

“Isn’t this workshop technically in a basement?” Clint thankfully pipes up before Tony can spiral completely out of control, voice muffled by the couch cushions where he’s laying. 

Tony takes advantage of the distraction, huffing a weak chuckle that masks the sound of his strangled breathing (which is starting to feel paper thin.) “Yeah, alright, smartass. No one asked you.” 

Here’s the thing. 

Steve and Tony got off on the wrong foot. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, and it didn’t exactly take a prophet to predict that a man from the 1940s and the world’s leading futurist would have a couple of compatibility issues. 

But they didn’t stay on the wrong foot. Couldn’t, really. Not when the Avengers started sharing a communal living space and the two had to see each other every single day. Not when Tony saw Steve folding the team’s laundry like it was his own, not when Steve started making two pots of coffee (one for the brand that Tony likes and one for everyone else) in the morning, and not when Steve told him one very, very unforgettable night that he was sorry for being wrong in the first place.

“In all honesty, I think I was looking for Howard when I met you,” Steve had admitted, eyes adamantly trained on the pencil he was flipping much too quick for comfort through his fingers. “I just wanted--- I don’t know, maybe it’s stupid. But I just wanted a piece of the past, y’ know? Something like home.” 

“Yeah,” Tony managed, clearing his throat a little, still in shock that Steve gave enough of a shit about what Tony thought of him to try and explain something so trivial as first impressions. “I wouldn’t sweat it, Cap. I know I can be a real dickbag---”

“Don’t,” Steve cut in, and Tony wasn’t trying to look at him, promise (he knew he had a tendency to stare when it came to Steve), but he sounded genuinely upset so the genius just couldn’t stop himself. Imagine his surprise when Steve, who usually didn’t much look up from his sketchpad during their talks, was staring back at him; jaw tensed in concern, eyes like two circles of blue, passionate flames. “I hate it when you do that.”

Then, before Tony could even get his bearings, Steve got up from his seat on the couch, walking over in what can only be accurately described as an angry march until he arrived at the workbench and slid to his knees so they were at eye level. 

Tony’s swallow was deafening. 

“I was wrong, Stark,” he started, brows furrowed in an apologetic crease, one hand coming up to rest on that incredibly, magnificently broad chest. Jesus Christ, he sounded so painfully sincere. “And I’m---”

“Tony---” the genius choked out, because what the fuck else could he do? “Please, uh… Don’t, um. Don’t call me Stark. Please. Call me Tony.”

To Steve’s credit, he didn’t do anything but smile. So warm and patient that the sun could take notes and learn from him. 

Tony suddenly felt uncomfortably warm. 

“Tony,” Steve amended, a small grin quirking up the corner of those very, very kissable lips (that he for sure, for sure should most definitely not be looking at because that is so not going to happen because even if Captain fucking America wasn’t straighter than Clint’s goddamn arrows, he definitey wouldn’t be into a man with a history like his.) “What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry. All that stuff that I said to you when we met---”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tony said on impulse, and good God was he going for the record for how many times he could interrupt Steve in a single conversation? “I said some things about you, too. Things that I didn’t mean. Well, I mean, I did mean them then but--- I don’t mean them now. I suppose I never really meant them, though. I just didn’t know you, you know? Not that that’s an excuse, but---”

“Tony?” Steve asked, raising his perfect eyebrows.

“Yeah, Steve?”

Steve tilted a little, making some of that beautiful, golden hair fall into his face as he laughed. “You’re rambling.”

Tony’s face went very, very hot. 

“Right, yeah, sorry,” he scrambled, ducking his head, trying to spare whatever rapidly dwindling pride he had left. In this way--- in this one small, insignificant way--- he hated Steve. The guy turned him into an absolute idiot; outstripped his wits with just a few well-placed words, a glance at that earnest expression and he was fucked. It was self-esteem-problem inducing.

“Don’t be.” Tony wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating, because the touch felt like lightning and fire, but then Steve’s fingers were slowly tilting up his chin until they were just inches apart. Steve’s sweet, minty breath blew across Tony’s nose, and he could swear that every single hair on his body stood up. “I think it’s cute.”

“Cute?” was his eloquent response, because most of his consciousness was split between the two objectives of remembering how to push oxygen into his lungs and trying to memorize the perfect blue of his unrequited love’s eyes. Oh, God. He was fucked. 

And look. Tony’s kissed a lot of people in his life. Girls, guys, neither, both. He knows how to feel it before it happens; that palpable tension that pervades the air like how wind turns thick before a storm. And every nerve in his body came alive, because he felt it then and there. With Steve. So close he was going cross eyed trying to see him. 

It was a moment of stupidity, of blind, desperate need when he did it. 

Tony leaned forward, still not brave enough to shut his lids like he should for a proper kiss. But in hindsight, that was for the best. 

Steve jerked back like he’d been fucking shot, springing up from where he’d been kneeling so fast that it made Tony’s head hurt just washing it. Not a strip of skin on the man wasn’t flushed violently red. 

“I gotta, uh---” he stammered, making a beeline for the door. Tony didn’t even have the chance to respond before Steve said, “Goodnight, Stark” and was out of sight. 

Stark. 

Not Tony. 

Stark. 

Oh, God. He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up so, so bad. 

He was such an idiot. An idiot. A complete fucking idiot.

Steve didn’t want him. Obviously. He knew that. Tony had known that, had always known that, would always know that. He’d known, and yet he’d tried to kiss him. Because he was an idiot. He’d made the man uncomfortable, and probably ruined their friendship which was just starting to get somewhere—Steve had just started coming down unprompted to the workshop with a sketchpad just a month ago. 

They’d just started getting along. And Tony had ruined it. Because he was an idiot. 

“JARVIS?” Tony had asked, slumping onto his desk where he could comfortably thunk his head against the edge. 

“Yes, Sir?”

“Can you book me a euthanasia appointment?”

The AI was, predictably, unamused. “I also believed Captain Rogers’ intent to be romantic. His vital signs were elevated in a manner that suggested typical male arou---”

Tony waved his hand at the ceiling. “Nope! No! I regret asking. Mute.” 

The floor is nice and cold as he slides down off the bench onto it; a nice parallel to his burning, mortified body. If only his pulse would just slow the fuck down, he might go to sleep. 

He’s tired. So tired, and so ashamed, and so angry at himself that he can’t find Steve, can’t apologize for fucking everything up. 

So worried Steve’s hurt. Or worse. 

But he won’t consider worse. So he has to keep looking. 

“— Bruce! He just collapsed—think it’s exhaustion…. Bring water, he’s probably— Tony?” 

Natasha’s voice comes in and out of Tony’s attention like very, very annoying waves on a shore. Ugh, God. He’s got a headache. 

“I’m fine,” he says, not opening his eyes that he hadn’t realized until now were closed. The dark is nice. “I’m fine, Nat. I swear—“

“Don’t bullshit me, Tony,” she cuts him off before he can even get into the meat of his excuse, voice as sharp as the dagger she keeps in her left shoe. “You just fucking collapsed in front of me, so don’t try and pull the wool over my eyes. And about Steve? I believe you. I don’t think he’s really gone, either. But I can’t— I won’t lose you finding him. I just won’t. Am I clear?” 

And because Tony has the survival instinct of a fucking beetle in an exterminator’s house, he responds, “I have to keep looking, Nat. Can you please help me up?” 

“Jesus Christ.” There’s the sound of clinking that sounds suspiciously like the metal casings of the injecting paralytics he designed for her last week, but when he tries to get up, she just shoves him back down with a frankly worrying ease. “I didn’t want to do this, but you’re not gonna sleep any other way.” 

Tony struggles beneath her incredibly heavy hand (Jesus, what’s she bench pressing these days?) to no avail. He resorts to pleading pathetically fast. “C’mon, Nat… I just worked out this new location algorithm— let me run it just once and then I’ll go to sleep, alright? It’ll just take a few seconds.” 

“JARVIS will run it while you’re out,” she replies, completely unmoved by his protests. 

“Yes, Sir, I will,” the AI chimes in, unhelpful as ever. 

“Traitor!” Tony snarls, still unsuccessfully attempting to worm out from beneath his friend’s hold. 

“Sir, this is for your own health. To my records, you haven’t slept in over ninety-six hours for a period longer than fifteen minutes at a time. I’m simply protecting you, as I was designed by you to do.” 

“Doesn’t make you any less of an asshole, J.” 

“Don’t be a baby,” Nat chides, and then there’s an awful, sharp pain crawling up his elbow into his veins. He goes to yelp, but realizes with a shock— he can’t. The sound is too heavy, like the rest of his body. So, so heavy. And cold. So heavy and cold it feels like it’s gonna sink through the floor, and his eyes start shutting involuntarily against it. He feels one of Natasha’s hands wind up in his hair (God, have her hands always been so warm?), twisting it to the side followed by the sensation of her fingers on the side of his neck. Held there for a moment. Evidently satisfied, she calls, “Little help, guys?” 

Tony doesn’t see who picks him up, but they do it softly. Gently. Quietly. They lay him so carefully on something plush, and forgiving for his aching bones. Tony would like to think it’s how Steve would have done it, if Steve were here. If Tony wasn’t a complete goddamn idiot and could find Steve. 

But that’s assuming Steve loves Tony enough for that in the first place. Which he doesn’t. 

That thinking makes him feel cold again, but a blanket comes a short while later, feeling sunwarm and soft as it goes across his shoulders. It helps with the chill, and it makes him feel heavy in a way that’s so pleasant, his will doesn’t stand a chance. 

Someone’s hand ends up in his. He can feel the lines of their palm. It’s nice. 

And for a blissful moment, he’s too heavy and warm to think about Steve. 

Just a moment of peace. Sixty simple seconds. Because that’s all Tony can have before JARVIS’ voice crackles over the speakers, uncharacteristically quiet. 

“Sir, I’ve found Rogers.” 

And between the hot, heavy, cold and light, he can’t feel much else but relief as he slips toward unconsciousness, even as the whole room around him devolves into chaos. 

Irony is one cold-hearted bitch. 

Tony can’t speak. He can’t smile, or cry, or ask why the AI sounds so somber when everything’s alright now, because Steve’s not gone. He’s found. Tony found him. 

He’s just coming around to realizing how there’s two very connotations to the word found when reality slips out from beneath him like a cruelly yanked rug. 

Oh. 

Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve’s side of the story. 
> 
> Which includes a lot of self-loathing, a lot of self-pity, and a lot of loving Tony. 
> 
> Who knew Captain America was so relatable?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy, y’all🤠🤠🤠 thanks for your patience! i’m very, very unhappy with how this chapter turned out but that’s the way it goes. 
> 
> WARNING: this chapter contains a bit of self-body shaming and some light violence. stay safe. 
> 
> please leave comments or kudos if u enjoyed bc i’m so sad and desperate for validation. 
> 
> have fun!!! lov u!!!

It’s all very ironic, actually. 

Funny, maybe. If you’re really pushing it. 

But Steve isn’t in the mood to laugh. As a matter of fact, he’s not sure if he can even get enough breath into his downright pathetically small lungs to do much more than breathe (and now he can hardly manage that.)

It’s fucking hilarious. It’s so fucking funny, isn’t it? 

He’s drenched in the comedy gold of it all; the great, all-mighty Captain America— reduced back to Stephen Rogers: a five-foot, one-hundred pound asthmatic who can’t even fight a cold, much less the injustices of the world. 

He’s nobody’s hero anymore. He’s too weak.

And the reason it’s so fucking hysterical is that a month ago, just one goddamn month ago, he was worried he was too strong. He fretted over his body; began to resent the fact that he had become a lethal weapon--- shiny shield unnecessary, just an optional accessory. He never really cared about that before, even though he knew it. 

But then he stopped hating Tony. Tony, who never left the bedside of whichever Avenger had gone and got themselves nearly killed during that week’s mission, even when his phone was ringing off the hook with other work (fully aware Ms. Potts would eviscerate him for ignoring it later.) Tony, who never let anyone want for anything (Steve once found a year’s worth of canvases in his room after offhandedly complaining to JARVIS that he was out of them one day). Tony, who was endlessly selfless, kind, and brilliant. Steve didn’t stand half a chance in the face of all that beauty. 

He just fell in love. Hook, line, and sinker. 

But a weapon can’t love Tony Stark. Someone as dangerous as Steve shouldn’t even be allowed in the genius’ vicinity, let alone share a bed with him at night.

See, you’d think after nearly a hundred years, Steve would have a grip on the whole “being as strong as twenty regular men” thing. He doesn’t. And he doesn’t mean to sound ungrateful about it--- of course, the power comes with advantages. It’s what allows him to lift fallen debris in the heat of battle, beat the living shit out of all the Neo-Nazi he sees with just a few hits, and save just about everyone who needs saving. In those ways, it’s truly a wonderful burden to bear, and he wouldn’t change a thing.

However, those good deeds don’t change the fact that sometimes (every time), when Steve wakes up from a nightmare, he finds his blankets ripped to shreds. Or that he’ll casually crush coffee mugs when he picks them off the counter, simply because he wasn’t thinking about controlling his arm’s muscles in the moment.

Just a clench of Steve’s unnaturally big hands could shatter a finger, or a face, or an arc reactor. It’d only take a single millisecond. One miniscule mistake. And Tony would be the one to suffer. 

Steve couldn’t take that chance. Refused to. No matter how much he wanted it. 

But oh, God, did he want it. 

It broke every stupid fucking string in his heart to not lean in with Tony— no, he had to hold himself back when all he really wanted was to grab the man Steve was so desperately, awfully, wholly in love with by the waist, hold his face achingly tender, tilt up the stubbled jaw, be the one to pull them in so close they could taste the kiss before their lips even touched, make Tony feel wanted, make him feel loved— 

Steve loves him like he hasn’t loved anyone else his whole life long. This was his chance to prove it, the great, big moment of truth: choosing between Tony’s safety, and Steve’s happiness. 

It wasn’t much of a choice at all. 

Steve left in a hurry, before he even gave himself the chance to give into temptation to change his mind (think maybe it could work, maybe they’d find a way around the fact that he’s essentially a glorified, fully loaded weapon), scurrying off like the frantic, wounded animal he was. Didn’t find enough courage in his sick, heaving heart to so much as look at Tony while he choked on a bullshit goodbye. He just booked it the hell out of there. 

He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t stay. Because in addition to a metal heart, Tony has a silver tongue. There’s not a thing he wants that he doesn’t get after a little persuasive conversation, a little well-placed body language (and isn’t that precisely how Steve fell so stupidly in love with him in the first place?) The man can talk circles around him; change his mind from what he knew was right, make him believe that they’d be stronger together, make him believe that love was enough to keep them both safe. Make him believe all sorts of crazy, crazy things. 

He’d make him believe Steve deserved Tony. 

Maybe it was a cowardly thing to do. But Steve couldn’t take that chance (a certainty, really— we’re talking about Tony motherfucking Stark, here.) So he ran. 

The funny thing is, a lot of parents have told Steve over the many years that he’s been a national icon (undeservedly in his opinion) about how they use him as a role model to their children. A beacon of good behavior. Of following the rules. Of exemplary morality. 

Apparently, Captain America eats all his greens (Steve can’t stand asparagus), and obeys all the laws (Steve might be the most treasonous fuck in the country), and most importantly: he never runs from anything. Captain America faces his problems head on. He feels no fear. 

And Steve will smile in amusement; always offer these starstruck mom and dads polite thanks for thinking of him that way. 

But he knows it’s such a load of shit. 

They’d know it, too, if they could have seen him practically flying up the stairs; leaping across them five at a time. They’d never have told tiny Tom to be brave at the doctor like Cap is if they’d watched him pack his duffel bag so hard and fast he ripped half the clothes before the zipper got pulled up. 

And they definitely wouldn’t have made him an idol to their poor, impressionable kids if they saw Steve leave with no explanation out the door. Past his questioning teammates, wondering why he was so fleeing the joint in such a rush (Bruce was cooking Thai, and everyone stays in on Thai Thursdays.) 

He didn’t fight. He ran. 

He was afraid. Afraid they’d change his mind. Afraid Natasha would tell him he was being irrational, Thor would say he’d bet his hammer that Steve couldn’t ever hurt Tony, or Clint would drop his class clown act for just a minute to talk him down from the ledge he’d built just to jump off it. 

Because they could. When Steve wanted it so bad, and he respected their opinions so much, they stood a real chance at making him turn around and kiss Tony like he had any idea how to. 

And when Tony inevitably ended up injured or worse (Steve doesn’t deserve a quarter of the faith they put in him), they’d feel like it was their fault, too. And these people— these good to the soul of their beings but heavy with all the grief and guilt of the world people— didn’t need that on their conscience. 

There wasn’t ever really a choice. 

Even though Steve knew what he was doing (turning Tony down, leaving the tower without so much as an explanatory goodbye) would hurt him, he understood he was ultimately acting in the genius’ best interest. And in all honesty, believing that was the only reason he had enough willpower to call Fury and ask for a mission instead of running back inside and begging a certain, unreasonably beautiful mechanic for forgiveness. 

Maybe if he hurried back in, said the right things, held Tony in the tenderest of arms, kissed him slow and soft, steady, not too strong, it could work out and they could—

Steve had to throw himself in the first cab that stopped. Or he really would never leave. 

He didn’t know at the time how funny it was. Didn’t know how funny it was that his past self sat there in a little, yellow car, crying quietly into the sleeve of his jacket when the taxi driver wasn’t looking about being something so stupid as too strong. 

It was funny because he’d forgotten how much worse it had felt being too weak. 

He’s not forgetting now, though. Now he knows. It’s practically all he knows. He’s learned the hilarious lesson. Earned penance for his prior lack of humor about the situation by constantly aching in a way that only the weakest of the weak do. 

And maybe he should cut himself some slack, considering the mission Fury sent him out on had gotten him kidnapped and tortured by some jacked-up HYDRA thugs for a month, but fuck that. 

Because Steve is weak now. He doesn’t know how exactly they did it; he was screaming so pathetically loud and hard in that dark little box they locked him into that he couldn’t hear them talk about it, except little snippets like “—lost over half his weight—“ and “—reverse serum’s effects to—.” And he couldn’t feel anything except the needles; pulling blood and bone and skin and what felt like Steve’s fucking soul out of his body which was somehow impossibly smaller— shorter— weaker — sicker — every goddamn day, until one morning, this morning, the doctors (sadistic bastards) hear him cough. 

It’s just a cough, really. Nothing particularly special about it; just hacking up some mucus and inhaled saliva like any normal, sick person would. 

Except he’s not supposed to be sick. He’s not supposed to be normal. 

“Incredible,” someone--- a man, by the sound of it--- says from somewhere above him, perversely giddy at his breathing difficulty (he’s too busy coughing his lungs up onto the ground to look up and determine their exact identity at the moment. He also doesn’t really give a shit. Just another heaping-piece-of-Nazi-scum that wants to stick another fucking needle in him.) “I can hardly believe it— he’s worse than normal, he’s under average! This is groundbreaking, impossible—“ 

“Calm yourself, Doctor,” a stomach-twistingly familiar voice cautions. The same voice that’s held him down through what feels like a thousand procedures, ordered thousands of injections and blood samples and beatdowns. Steve calls him Ass Clown. Or has, the few times he hasn’t been in too much pain to speak. “This is exciting, but we can’t allow our nerves to push us into any rash conclusions.” 

“Yes, of course. I apologize,” the other man responds, tone tinted with shame.

Steve wants to stop coughing. He wants to get up and take a swing at these assholes for all he’s worth; make them feel even a fraction of the pain he’s feeling (and shouldn’t he be able to? He’s Captain America, for fuck’s sake), but he can’t. He’s on his hands and knees, staring at the floor beneath him. Hacking the contents of his pathetic, skinny chest up. Black spots encompassing his vision, swallowing everything he can see and turning it into a terrifying blindness making him impossibly more vulnerable to the already awful situation he’s in. 

Strangely, there’s an edge of nostalgia to it. Somehow homely. Or, as homely as not being able to breathe can be.

Because it reminds him of being young. The deja vu hits deep beneath his diaphragm, washes through him in every gasp (no matter how much he inhales, the air never quite makes it past his lips) until it dawns in a blinding light on Steve’s mind. 

Steve. Not Captain America. 

He’s Steve Rogers again. Skeleton-thin, no-immune-system, weak-as-a-baby, worthless Steve Rogers. 

Oh, God. 

“Please, take your time, Stephen,” Ass Clown taunts, and fuck if it doesn’t make him feel so much worse to know the man who just took the only part of his life that was remotely valuable and destroyed it is standing right there above him, and Steve isn’t anywhere near strong enough to make him pay. He’s too weak. Nothing special anymore. “You have an abundance of it.” 

“Fuck you,” Steve spits once the hacking recedes enough to drag a breath in. God, he’s shaking so hard, he just might fall into pieces. Tiny, sick pieces. “What did you--- what did you do to me?”

“What did we do to you?” Ass Clown repeats, obviously amused. Then, before Steve can even get his bearings, there’s a gloved hand threading through his hair--- ripping him up onto his knees. He has to bite his tongue so hard he tastes blood to narrowly keep from crying out. “Consider yourself HYDRA’s charity case. We fixed you, Stephen.”

Steve is about to undoubtedly make a very, very witty, not at all pathetic reply, but (thankfully) doesn’t get the chance. Because, rather abruptly, there’s a deafening boom, and an Iron-Man shaped hole in the wall.

And the guy that was losing his goddamn mind with happiness earlier goes flying across the space from a well-placed repulsor blast. 

“Hands up!” Tony’s voice thunders into the room. (Oh, God, Steve has never heard anything sweeter in his stupid fucking life, he could write sonnets about Tony’s voice, even coming heavily filtered out of the suit’s speakers, it’s so beautiful.) The armor gleams bright, red and gorgeous even in the dismal hotel lighting. Akin to seeing the sun after a million rainy days. “Let go of him, unless you want to lose that fucking hand.”

“Ah, Stark,” Ass Clown addresses, notably nonchalant for someone holding a hostage up by their hair and having a loaded weapon aimed at his head. “Always the businessman. Always with the transactions.”

Tony doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m not in the mood for riddles, fuckwad. Let him go. Final warning.” 

“I don’t think you’re the one holding the bargaining chips here. Which I understand may be a foreign concept to you,,” Ass Clown says, smile audible in his tone. “Don’t you want to know---”

Steve loves Tony so much it aches, because Tony keeps his promises. The genius closes the distance between them in a millisecond, and all Steve can feel is the stinging relief of his scalp as it’s absolved of Ass Clown’s grip. And then the wonderful, musical noise that is the whir of the repulsor being fired and that fucker’s scream.

Steve doesn’t have to look behind him (though he does, because it’s a fantastic view) to know Ass Clown doesn’t have a right hand anymore. 

“Fuck! Fucking hell—-!” the doctor chokes. “Please, please, don’t hurt me--- please, I---”

Tony doesn’t waste another second, focused and lethal as he slams him into the closet door with a force that dents the wall around it, either completely oblivious or wholly uncaring to Ass Clown’s responding screech. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Tony snarls, winding a metal hand around Ass Clown’s throat, effectively blocking the grating sound. “You piece of fucking shit, I should fucking kill you, I should put you six feet into the ground you fucking piece of fucking shit---”

“Tony,” Steve calls, so quiet through his scratchy throat that he doesn’t expect the genius to hear. But he must, because the glaring, glowing eyes of the Iron Man armor look away from Ass Clown to train on him. Watching. Observing. And after a few stilted seconds, in which it’s revealed that Steve isn’t sure quite what to say (maybe, “Hey, love! Miss me? Probably not. Either way, don’t kill him! He’s probably the only person that can fix me!”), the faceplate draws back. 

Tony looks so tired. And yes, worry maybe shouldn’t be the first thing that Steve feels when he sees the face that he’s missed more than anything else (maybe it should be relief, or attraction, or at the bare minimum: happiness), but worry is what he feels nonetheless. Those big, Bambi eyes are wide; awake and alert— but in the worst way. The way he looks after he’s woken up from a nightmare, and Steve can’t truly comfort him or goad him back to sleep. Because what he’s seeing isn’t just some stupid dream. It’s wholly, and awfully real. 

Steve feels just as helpless as he watches Tony’s expression devolves from instinctual fury and anxiety into comprehension, shock, pity, while he looks back at him, running his calculating gaze up and down Steve’s new (or, old, technically) body. Steve doesn’t have to be a mind reader to know what the genius is thinking. 

He’s weak again. 

Pre-serum, somehow. 

And very, very sick. 

(In all honesty, Steve’s also more than a little bit worried that he’s run the math in that fast brain of his and figured out just how fucking worthless this makes the Avenger’s infamously strong leader. How pointless it was to save him.)

The faceplate slams back on. Thankfully, before Steve can see whether or not these thoughts spell themselves out in Tony’s eyes. 

“What did you do?” the genius demands, turning back to the man caught in his literal iron hold, voice eerily steady. 

“We— we killed—“ Ass Clown chokes, unsevered hand clawing futilely at the metal fingers around his purpling neck. “We— killed Captain— America.” 

“How do I fix him?” Tony growls, unphased. 

“You—“ he has to stop to pant, pupils rolling into the back of his head for one glorious moment, but he somehow manages a smug smirk that raises every hair on Steve’s (now pencil-thin) neck “—you— can’t.” 

Steve hears the snap of Ass Clown’s neck more than he sees it. 

And Steve closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see that dead body drop onto the floor, or have to feel like Tony just stole his last hope at coming out the other side of this half the man he was when he came in. 

He can’t really feel himself fall from his kneeling position. The numbness comes quick, efficient, brutal. Like he’s being anesthetized by his own brain taking pity on him. 

Poor Steve. Poor stupid, weak, pathetic, choking-on-his-own-spit-and blood-Steve. 

“Steve—shit! Steve, can you hear me?” 

He can’t quit coughing, even when stiff hands are yanking him up so the wet, copper taste spills over his lips instead of the back of his mouth, and he doesn’t want to open his eyes, as cowardly as it is. He doesn’t want to see pity in Tony’s beautiful face. He doesn’t want to feel the shame that comes with it before he dies. 

Fuck. This is how he dies. Not in the blaze of American glory during some righteous battle, but on the floor of New York’s seediest hotel. Having an asthma attack like he’s just that sick kid from Brooklyn again. 

Like he’s nothing again. 

“Bruce is coming, okay? Steve? Steve, just hang on! Deep breaths, in and out, okay?” 

Breathing always sounds simple when you’re not the one being told to do it. 

“No, no, stay awake! Steve, please— I didn’t shoot an antiparalytic up my arm to have you pass out on me. Steve, please, just—“ 

There’s a deeper darkness beyond the inside of a closed eyelid. There is a darker, more peaceful night after the moon has dimmed her light. 

And Steve loves Tony like he’s never loved anyone his whole life long. But it’s not enough to keep him here— it’s just not. 

So Steve musters the impossible strength (ignoring the irony that this must be his weakest point) to look up at him. At the light, one last time. 

Tony’s crying, which feels wrong. Like seeing the sun rain on earth, and it’s not right. Steve has to set it right. 

“Tony,” he coughs, hardly intelligible but he just knows down to the soul of who he is that the other man will understand. “Tony, I—“ 

“Save it, Steve. You’re going to be just fine, don’t you dare tell me ‘just in case’ or I’ll kill you myself. I swear, don’t test me.” 

The blood that’s crusted around the corners of his mouth aches as it’s pulled into a smile. God, he loves Tony. That’s all he has to know. 

But Tony doesn’t want him to speak now. So he won’t. He’ll do what he’s asked. 

He’ll just have to tell him when he wakes up. When, not if. Because Steve can’t stay awake, but he also won’t make Tony cry a second time. He just won’t. 

“O-okay,” he whispers. 

“Bruce will be here in under a minute— just keep those eyes open, soldier. You listening? Steve? Steve? Don’t leave me, please. Not again, please. Steve?” 

Steve slips out of consciousness, right before he can do something stupid. 

Like maybe make a promise he might not be able to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoiler alert. he keeps the unspoken promise. 
> 
> come visit me on tumblr @WillowsAndWastelands (please i have three followers i’m just shouting into a void) 
> 
> if u liked it, please leave a comment i lov talking to u!! 
> 
> i’ll update soon!!💕💕

**Author's Note:**

> UH OH. 
> 
> oh shiiiiit. 
> 
> well if u enjoyed pls leave a comment so i can feel valid in this chillis tonight. 
> 
> luv u all!! thank u so much for reading💕❤️♥️
> 
> tumblr: @WillowsAndWastelands


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